


A Fracture In The Cellar Door

by nightmare_kisser



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dangerous Co-Dependence, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, M/M, Metaphors, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:58:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmare_kisser/pseuds/nightmare_kisser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The men, the two she loves - loves in a way she can't explain - they are separated, and somehow that separates her very being, puts a clean break between Molly and Hooper, and she wants a fusion, wants the pieces to mend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [We Go Anywhere But To The Ground](https://archiveofourown.org/works/331636) by [geordielover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geordielover/pseuds/geordielover). 



> Partially inspired by the lovely sunsets I see here in Florida, and partly inspired by this post on tumblr: http://nightmare-kisser.tumblr.com/post/18887612760/misslovegood7-suicidalsnaily
> 
> …Kudos to fireflyastoria for this enchanting thought I only had half-formed in my mind during that scene, but is now fully formed and beautiful. ;w;
> 
> Some of Molly's importance and struggle in this was, admittedly, inspired by the fic, "We Go Anywhere But To The Ground" by geordielover.
> 
> Anyway, this is, of course, more post-Reichenbach (and therefore AU) angst. It's damn near impossible to neglect, isn't it? It's like the perfect writing material, no matter how many times it's done over and over during this hiatus.

A myriad of colors dance before his eyes, spanning the length of the sky in streaks, ripples, and tufts. The clouds paint the perfect picture of the sunset, drawing out a haphazard pattern that somehow blends immaculately together. Rich indigos, pale blues, gentle purples, flush reds, fiery oranges, golden yellows. They all converge at the point of the sun, but the way they are fanning out from east to west in such a happy coexistent way is breathtaking.

John Watson spends an extended period of time simply watching the sun go down. He's stretched out on the rooftop, limbs spread-eagle, fingers curled listlessly, the hardness of the cement beneath him feel cold and unforgiving, but the breeze is subtly warm with the oncoming summer, and the lingering traces of light are welcome upon his cheek.

It's only when the final traces give way to dusk and, finally, the night, does John rise from his place atop St. Bart's and removes his jacket from the rooftop. He slides it on, rubs his chilled palms together, and breathes hot, moist air onto his numb fingertips to at least return them to normal.

It feels like he's lost all sensations but his sight and hearing for an eternity, now.

Food doesn't taste very appealing. John lives on tea, but even that has been reduced to warm water he hardly feels go down his throat. Physical contact is moot; it does nothing to comfort him. Not even when his sister kisses his forehead and touches his hair, not even when Molly pats his back sympathetically, not even when he wraps his own arms around himself and lies down in fetal position.

Nothing. He feels utterly nothing anymore. He only sees and hears, and even those senses have seemed to dim and fade. Life was like this before, once: when he first returned from Afghanistan. John is a doctor; he recognizes the symptoms of depression when he comes across them.

But it's been years. Of course he's depressed about it. Who can get over something like that? Who can stand by knowing that they were left behind because they failed?

Mycroft might have given Moriarty information on Sherlock and Sherlock's life to later be used against him, but in the end, John knows that it's his fault that he wasn't enough to save Sherlock from suicide. Friends protect friends; John said so himself. And he didn't protect his friend enough.

So here he is. John forgets when it began, but it was some time a few months ago.

Every week, after his last shift at the hospital (he took up a job again because he needed the money for rent; he needs to keep the flat at 221B, as much as it pains him to remember everything that happened there, because he can't let go; he just _can't_ ) before the weekend, John goes up the roof.

Every week, John stands on the ledge, looks down, licks his dry lips, feels the plummet in his gut, and clenches his trembling fingers into fists.

And every week, John wills himself not to cry, and every week, he steps down odd the ledge, sits on it facing the rooftop, and puts his face in his hands. And every week, he lies down afterward and stares up at the sky instead.

John can't bring himself to jump. He isn't even sure he truly wants to off himself at all; he just knows that he is trying to work something out each time he comes here, each time he looks down at the street below.

He tries to imagine what Sherlock had been thinking. He tries to imagine how Sherlock had the inhuman courage to step right off the ledge. He tries so very hard, when he lies down, to be clever like Sherlock. To not think about how he doesn't know what happened to Moriarty; there were traces of blood found on the roof, blood that wasn't Sherlock's, and no one can place it. Nobody knows. But John thinks it could have been Moriarty. Moriarty could have faked his death, too, to trick Sherlock, to convince Sherlock that he had no choice but to jump.

John all a jumble of speculations and half-baked evidence, and John can't seem to make a lick of sense of it all. He can't piece it together well enough; he's not Sherlock. But if he were remotely like the man at all, John would figure this out in a heartbeat, because, somehow, that would make the most of Sherlock's memory.

Sighing to himself, John heads for the door that will lead him back down into the hospital. He pauses as he reaches for the knob. Something feels… off. The balance is wrong, the setting is different, something miniscule and hardly noticeable but just barely _there_ enough to draw a spark of John's attention…

Ah, that's it, John realizes with a blink. His eyes land on the door itself. It's partly open. Now, John _knows_ for a fact that it was closed when he came up here and shut it behind himself. He had to lock it, you see. He has the key to get up here. They all require keys, all the doctors and janitors, since Sherlock's death. It's no longer as open as it used to be, the passage between doors. It's sealed.

But this seal is broken.

John stares for a long time at the door, watching the way it's ever so slightly ajar, the jutting brass attached to the knob touching the brass frame around the hole in the doorframe that it's supposed to slide into when the knob it brought into it to fully shut the door. John stares and stares at it, trying to work out how it could have been unlocked, turned, opened, but only just.

He reaches for the knob again, this time bringing the door fully closed. He waits a second, and then tears it open again.

The stairs in the corridor leading down into the main levels of the building is empty. But, ah, there: on the tiled floor on the landing at the bottom of the stairs before it reaches the door into the hospital: a scuff mark. Made by black shoes. No one hardly comes up here but John, and John is wearing light brown shoes. His only pair of black shoes are his dress shoes, which are at home. And what's more, that mark wasn't there before he came up to the roof, and no one's been on the roof but him since he came up.

John narrows his eyes in suspicion. Who followed him? Who's been watching him? Who works in the hospital, has a key, who wears black shoes? Who would know he was up here after his shift anyhow? The only person who knows his habits is Molly, and even she doesn't know that he stands on the ledge every week.

The ex-army doctor's head feels fuzzy and dizzy, like the answers are right in the front of brain, just out of reach of his thoughts. Like he _knows_ the answers, but they are simply too painful or too complex or too impossible for his mind to wrap around and _grasp._

John shakes his head. He feels like he needs a drink. It's Friday; he calls Mike Stamford. Time to go to the pub and _forget_ for a while.

0o0o0

Exhales jaggedly. _"Molly. He nearly saw me today."_

" _I told you to be careful!"_ Pause. Thoughtful, _"It's like I said, isn't it? John always goes up there, once a week, but he never tells me what he does. I think he watches the sunset."_

" _He did. But not before he stood on the ledge for nearly ten minutes. Molly, why didn't you tell me he does that every time he goes up to the roof?"_

Startled. _"…What! He does? I-I didn't know, honest."_ Horror truly sets in. _"Oh, God. You don't think he…?"_

Roll of the eyes. _"John's not suicidal, Molly."_ More thoughtful, _"I think he's trying to sort out what I was thinking when I did it."_

Sounding exasperated, _"It's still dangerous, Sherlock. God, why can't you_ go _to him?"_

" _I want to, believe me. I hate seeing him like this more than you can possibly imagine. But I can't, not yet. Need more time."_ Pause. She knows, he's told her: done with the assassins, just have loose ends to tie up. It's a lie; he was thorough. Tied all the ends. Is just hesitating, now, procrastinating in the biggest way. Can't go to John yet. Isn't ready, isn't prepared. Can't quite tell anyone this. Grips the phone tighter to his ear, _"Thank you for your keys. It_ was _locked."_

Sighs, defeated. _"It was nothing. I told you: whatever you need. Even though it's killing me, even though it's killing_ him _, slowly, I will help you, Sherlock. I did that day, and I did… uh,_ afterward _. I still will help you. Anything you need that I can get for you, I will."_

" _I know. Thank you; you don't know what it means to me."_

Smiles tiredly, evident in voice. _"I think I have an idea."_

Awkward. _"Well. Goodbye, Molly."_

" _Goodbye."_ Concerned. _Warm_.

Sherlock sets down the phone. Looks at his black shoes. Unties them slowly, removes them. Drops onto the hotel bed.

_Exhausted._


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly wants to help John in the same manner she continually does Sherlock.

John decides to do some investigating.

As soon as he drops down onto the stairs' landing, the doctor removes one of the latex gloves still in his pocket from the day's work. He's fortunate to have kept it. He puts it on, carefully peels off the skid mark left by the mysterious black shoe, and flips the glove inside-out to keep the bit of black rubber from being any further contaminated.

And he returns to the lab, and he sees Molly getting off the phone with someone.

"Goodbye."

Her tone is concerned and warm, and John feels more relaxed, somehow. "Hello, Molly."

She jumps. She quite literally jerks upward where she stands, shoulders stiff, and she turns and looks at John with an odd expression before forcing one of her delicate, nervous smiles. "John! You gave me a fright. What are you doing here? Your shift ended ages ago."

"You know I like to go to the rooftop on Fridays," he murmurs quietly. "I've seen you spying on me, watching me go to the door to the stairs that lead to the roof." He looks down at her shoes. They're white sneakers. Not her scuff marks, then. He looks back up. "Can I use some of the chemical equipment? I want… I want to see if I can place where this has been." And he holds up the glove.

"…That glove? It could have been anybody's, John, been anywhere –" she begins, frowning.

"It's mine. It's what's inside it that matters," John remarks quickly. He grabs an empty glass dish and carefully turns the glove inside out, shaking each finger and the palm for the shreds of rubber. They tumble down in increments until John is sure every last little piece is in the dish. He smiles faintly. "I learned this from Sherlock when we had the Hansel and Gretel case. He tracked a man by the faint traces in his shoe prints. Brilliant."

Molly looks at his sad smile and has to turn away. He can hear her sniffling. "I-I'll get the lab set up. I can help you."

"Thank you."

In the end, they can't tell much. Scuff marks don't hold much information. But it does tell them the sort of rubber, and with a quick internet search, John is able to pinpoint the brand that uses this particular rubber for their shoes, and where in London their shoes are sold. They're for dress shoes, but nothing too expensive, and namely sold for men's footwear.

It dawns on Molly that this isn't for a case John has taken up for the police, because once they find the results, he doesn't even bother to text or call Greg or anyone else from Scotland Yard.

"John? What is this for, exactly?"

"Someone was on the stairs to the roof today. Someone who wasn't me, and wasn't you. I need to know, because if they saw me –" and he stops short. What does it matter if they saw him? Saw him stand on the ledge, saw him lay on the rooftop, saw him lose his composure more than once? What does it matter? – He clicks his lips, his exhale measured, and he soldiers on. "They could be a stalker of some sort. Or one of Moriarty's men, a hitman of some sort. We had assassin's living around our _flat_ near the end, Molly. I can't be too careful of any skid marks I see on the tiles where no one should be walking but me."

"…Don't you think you could… be overreacting?" Molly suggests tightly, her spring wound and ready to come undone. If John were Sherlock, he could read into it more, make assumptions. But he isn't, so he can't. He only knows that this alarms him.

"No! I need to be as careful as possible! You saw what Moriarty did, what he – How he framed Sherlock, made him look like a fraud when he _isn't,_ and –" John realizes that he's raising his voice, nearly screaming. He's livid, and Molly is shrinking back, intimidated. John sputters, breathes for a few moments, and then reduces his seething to a minimum. "Oh, God, Molly, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. You don't deserve this. I shouldn't go off on you, you didn't do anything wrong. You're just worried about me, and, _Jesus,_ I have given you and everyone else every right to be worried. I haven't been myself. I'm not – not the man I was, before. Before he. _God._ "

And John has to take a moment to inhale as slowly as possible to force himself to steel away and keep from crying. Military mentality: _don't let them see you cry, Solider._ He nods once, curtly, and takes his results on paper and makes a move to leave.

"Thanks again for your help, Molly. I have a lead, and that's good enough for me."

"Yes," she murmurs, and her tone is distant and carefully masked. "Call me in the morning and tell me if you've found anything, okay?"

"Will do," John promises. He doesn't look back.

0o0o0

Watches him go, watches him pace out of the chemical laboratory with his shoulders squared and his gait uneven, his stress bringing back a ghost of a limp instead of excitement willing it away. She watches him break and slap a band-aid over the pain.

Hears how he doesn't blame her for anything, thinks her perfectly innocent, even though he knows she told a lie, on that day. Knows she lied about Mrs. Hudson being in trouble, knows Sherlock must have put her up to it.

Doesn't know that she is still helping the detective, still doing everything wrong.

She cracks under the pressure; nearly calls him back. Clenches her fists, nails biting her skin. Forces herself to regroup, rethink. _Breathes._

Has a thought.

Dials Sherlock's number.

" _He was just here, Sherlock. He's trying to be like you, figure things out. He. He found black skid marks on the tile in the stairs. He analyzed them, and I helped him. God help me, I helped him get a lead on the_ shoes _you're wearing, Sherlock. He's going to find you."_

" _Molly. Molly, slow down."_ But it catches up to him without her repeating herself through her tears. Blink. _Ohh._ He left in a hurry when he saw John getting up and coming toward the door. He ran, turned too sharply on his heel, must have left a scuff on the tile he didn't notice in his haste.

But John noticed. John took it upon himself to be clever. John mimicked Sherlock's methods. John –

" _Oh, John."_

Nodding, _"…You see, now, don't you? He's paranoid that you're some stalker or killer after him, and he's looking into it. He might find you if you aren't careful, Sherlock."_

" _No. Not enough to go on, and doesn't have my resources. But I knew he had it in him to be clever, to get the right idea going. Oh,_ Doctor _."_

" _So he won't find you before you're ready? I guess I should be relieved,"_ no longer crying; wiping away tears now, _"But I'm not. I can't do this for much longer, Sherlock. I'll help you, but I can't… I can't watch him spiral down like this."_

" _He won't. I know John, Molly, and he won't. He's doing outstanding thus far, and he won't disappoint. Give him a bit more time. Give me more time. I nearly have it sorted. I nearly –"_

" _You had better,"_ severely toned. Sherlock clams up. _"For all our sakes."_ Hangs up.

Sets down mobile phone on lab table. _Breathes._ Puts face in hands. Fingernails need to be trimmed, repainted. Sighs, sobs, sighs again. Looks back at the door, wishes for anyone to embrace her, hold her, keep her together while the two men in her life currently most important to her tear her apart.

Her father's been gone for years. She doesn't have a brother or a sister. She doesn't have a boyfriend, and the few she's had haven't exactly turned out well, and the one she wanted she's learned to leave alone romantically, because what they have – friendship, alliance, whatever it is – is best.

Molly Hooper. She reminds herself of her name so not to get lost. But. The men, the two she loves, yes, loves in a way she can't explain, they are separated and somehow that separates her very being, puts a clean break between _Molly_ and _Hooper,_ and she wants a fusion, wants the pieces to mend.

_Molly._ Sherlock Holmes /-fracture-/ John Watson. _Hooper._

(Sighs, sobs, sighs again. _Breathes._ )

Never thought friends could mean so much. Never thought the pain of others could sting so badly. Never thought something like this could happen to her, something like this could be witnessed by her:

A madman. A faked suicide. Snipers. Lives at stake. Self sacrifice. Deceit. Smoke and mirrors. Concern masked by anonymity. Third party, herself, in the middle of loss and love (although what sort of love, she still isn't sure, but it doesn't matter, it really doesn't have to be specified, because Sherlock loves John and John loves Sherlock and those facts alone are all that remain in the end, because love is love is love, platonic or romantic or in blood or not, and it pains her, it truly does, to feel that love, so strong, but unable to connect the poles sending it out).

It's insane. _Insane._

Bones don't even break this agonizingly. She would know; she's seen enough. But this. _This._

Molly has to be strong, has to be like the men she admires, has to endure. And she will.

But.

But she almost can't handle it. She almost wishes she weren't involved.

_But only almost._

And she knows, she _knows_ with her very heart and soul that once Sherlock and John are reunited and mended, she will be whole again, and everything will be alright.

(It takes losing something to realize how vital it was originally. It took Sherlock being separated from John, the inseparable duo sliced in half with garden shears because of a madman and a suicide, for Molly to comprehend that, _oh,_ these two men have become everything special in her world, everything quirky and worth living for in her life, because they are the only men who care for her, the only ones who can be insufferable but endearing, the only ones she loves, loves with all her heart.)

Sniffle. Dab, dab. _Intake of breath,_ shaky exhale. Steadying hands.

There. Band-aid to match John's. Gum instead of glue for a leaky pipe. _Patched._

Molly leaves the lab, changes out of her scrubs. Goes home.

John doesn't call her in the morning.


	3. Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wonders is Sherlock would have been proud of him for thinking this much, for coming this far.

After asking a million answers that are unable to be answered, or answered in a way that is helpful, John quickly gathers that this lead of his, about the shoes, isn't good enough. He doesn't know how old the shoes are; clearly new enough to be worn with the current fashion, judging by the brand, but time is indefinite about when they were purchased or from which store or by what size shoe, so all things regarding height and customer purchasing history are ruled out almost immediately.

So John gives up on his shoe lead. He even gives up on the traces of the places the shoe has been, because most of it is so general to London and so closely related to the streets near Bart's that it is also unhelpful.

But he feels like he got somewhere, at least, with his personal deductive skills. He wonders is Sherlock would have been proud of him for thinking this much, for coming this far.

Resigning the scuff mark research, John instead takes up the habit of glancing around him as often as possible to see if anyone out of the ordinary is in the background, if any faces are repeated one too many times to be casual coincidence. To see if anyone is directly observing him.

He doesn't spot anyone outside the norm. And the fact that he's looking so intensely for someone to begin with is a bit worrying; John is well aware of how paranoid he's acting, but could anybody blame him for it? His best friend died because of a criminal who played too dirty to keep up with. John has every right, in his mind, to be paranoid. The man had a network worse than Sherlock's homeless eyes; he had murderers under his belt.

And John is too keenly attuned to his suspicions to let them go as easily as he dropped the scuffmarks.

0o0o0

"You haven't written in your blog for a while," his therapist remarks calmly, always gently prodding. "Too long of a while. What happened with that, John? It was helping you."

"There's nothing to write about anymore," John remarks icily. "You know that. The only thing I was writing about were our cases, and now we have none, because there isn't a 'we' anymore, there's just _me,_ and I'm not the consulting detective, I'm just the _documenter._ "

"Don't short-change yourself," she tells him. "You're also a doctor, not just someone who writes down the events. You have medical knowledge and you did plenty to aid in those cases; it wasn't all Sherlock's doing."

"Could… could you not say his name, please? Just hearing it makes me angry."

"Angry? Why?" and it's her job to ask this, he knows, but it just adds another and another grain of rise to the scale, and he's about to tip over and spill out.

"Be _cause,"_ John responds tensely, "This whole thing is messed up. I'm through with feeling hurt and lonely and paranoid and like I've failed in stopping him or helping him! And I'm tired of _waiting,_ too! Sherlock wasn't like that, he wasn't the sort who took his own life; he frowned upon suicide, no matter what the circumstance it was committed under. He was full of himself and loved himself and wouldn't put an end to it; he loved being the world's only consulting detective, and he was bloody good at it, and he knew that, too!

"So I'm fed up with thinking that he's really gone, because he _must_ have figured something out in the end and found a way to fake it, because Sherlock wouldn't _do it to begin with._ But it's been so long since it happened that I'm _mad_ at him for not ending this and coming back! I'm tired of waiting for him to show up at the flat one day, or waiting for him to send me a text like he always did. I'm _through._ "

And she let him get it all out before speaking, bless her, because she does know how to do her job, but here it comes: she's licking her lips, adjusting her seating, and looking down before connecting gazes with him cautiously. "John, I know how difficult this must be for you, but you have to understand that no matter how clever or unlikely to commit suicide Sherlock Holmes seemed, it _did_ happen. It's not healthy to regress into denial like this. You were making progress in the stages of grief; you were between depression and acceptance, the final two, and I would like to know what has triggered you to slipping back to anger and denial, some of the earlier two."

"Nothing happened," John murmurs coldly. He seems to shrink inside himself with the words, like a turtle retreating into its shell. First degrees of isolation; back at the first stage again, along with denial.

She sighs. She's a professional, but professionals can't help everybody, and she can't fix every patient she has. John Watson is particularly delicate, because he has two major stresses in his past: war and loss. Losses occur in war often, but for there to be war and then very personal loss not shortly after returning from said conflict, it can leave someone very damaged. She's actually impressed that John is as stable as he is currently, and not worse. But he's been better. Much better. So it's about time he's returned to that 'better' state.

"John," she begins as firmly as she can without sounding harsh or unsympathetic, "There are still things you're refusing to let go of, and I don't mean your friend. I mean words and feelings you won't let yourself hear or experience, and that's causing you to rise to critical levels. So, please, for yourself, I would like you to let it out. You don't have to do it here, with me, if you're uncomfortable with it, but it needs to be done. Bottled soda, when shaken, explodes. Volcanoes, with steam and pressure building up inside them, erupt. Do you see what I'm saying? If you don't let it out in increments, you're going to violently lash out one day, and it won't be healthy or pretty or safe for anyone involved, least of all yourself."

The session ends, then, and John takes his jacket and goes home. Home, the only true home he thinks he's ever had, because he didn't have a poor childhood, not at all, but he's felt more at home on Baker street than any other place he's been, because it wasn't solid – he left often to shop because they were constantly running out of things or things were getting spoiled by experiments; he often ran around on cases; he never knew what surprise would await him next, be it an experiment or case or mood of Sherlock's; and it was the most abnormal-yet-functional manner John has ever heard of anyone living – but it was right. It felt right. John _fit._ It _worked._

He wishes for nothing more than for things to return to that state.

And.

And what made him angry, what triggered the mess that was brought into the light during his therapy session was that goddamn skid on the tile. That black streak ruined everything, because John couldn't help but think, _Sherlock wore black shoes_ and, _Sherlock would look after me, wouldn't he?_ and, _What if it really_ was _Sherlock?_ and, _If it was, why didn't he come out to see me?_

His hopes were raised high, _unfeasibly_ high, but when he realized he couldn't prove that it had been Sherlock after all, his hopes went crashing to the ground faster than a flaming airplane from the sky. And that triggered it, the anger, the feeling of Sherlock being alive (not quite a full hunch, but more than mere denial), all of it.

And then, of course, there's the other thing. The other thing he keeps packing away, stuffing down, hiding from himself. He knows he had hopes that were dashed, and that hurt, of course it did, but he doesn't need to say that aloud. What he refuses to say, to _hear,_ to know ad understand and let himself _feel_ is the love. Love for Sherlock.

John doesn't want to think about it.

Because love is much crueler motivator, as Sherlock similarly once said, and love is a varied and intricate thing, because love comes in all forms, doesn't it? You can love a neighbor, love a friend, love a sibling, love a cousin, love your parents, love your teacher, love your job, love your co-workers, love a type of food, love music, love a television show or film, love a location, love a memory, love an inanimate object, love an actor; the list goes on and on.

And each thing requires a different sort of fondness with a different kind of reaction stemmed from that feeling, and John really isn't sure which category Sherlock falls into. He doesn't think he wants to know, wants to accept it, because while it is easy to say that he cares for Sherlock's being a great deal and misses him, there are all sorts of burdens that come with knowing to what extent that caring goes.

So instead of facing the problem and dealing with it, John opts to go out drinking again, this time alone. It helps him forget moments in time, helps him accept without remembering he did so, and right now, that's the best, albeit most hollow, form of comfort he has and can genuinely process without bursting into pieces.

(What John really needs is a good cry, but that's just another thing he won't bring himself to release.)


	4. Part IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A foolish drunken man becomes a wise man once he is sober.

"I couldn't leave him there, Sherlock!" comes Molly's voice, drifting into John's dreams. He sees her face, but it's distorted and foggy the way dreams are, and she looks pink and upset. "He's bloody pissed and half out of his mind! Who knows what he would have done if I hadn't found him? He was two seconds away from hopping into the Thames for a swim!"

Molly sounds odd when she's cursing. Or as near to cursing as her gentle nature allows. John feels himself groggily move in the dream, and Molly stops short and comes over to him, touching cool fingers to his face, but he only dimly feels them. He wonders if he should say anything. Wonders if he can focus on her, make her look a bit clearer, a bit more real.

"But he didn't," comes Sherlock's voice, now, low and remorseful and beautiful. John can't see him, but he feels warm all over – the alcohol; it must be. Even in his dreams, it's still in effect – and he likes hearing Sherlock's voice again, even if it's only in his subconscious. "You stumbled across him and saved him. Some might call that 'luck' or 'fate.'"

"Damn your 'luck' and damn your 'fate,' Sherlock! I can't do this anymore. Look at him; he's awful. He was so much better for a while, but then you had to go and lave a clue, and now he's like this," and she's definitely sobbing, and some of the warmth around John pulls away and feels incredibly cold as Molly tugs him and brings him into her tiny arms. He can faintly smell her shampoo, clean and flowery. He tips his head and rests against her chest, and she sighs through the tremors her sobs are wreaking on her. "Sherlock, please stay. When he wakes up, seeing you would fix everything."

Yes, it would, and it would make this dream feel like a beacon in a storm, John distantly thinks, and he desperately wants to say it aloud.

Molly turns her head toward him, her ponytail brushing his face, and he grunts. She still seems fuzzy and dim, but there, her voice is at least clearer, and not as underwater-sounding as before. He can almost imagine the vibrations of her vocal chords against his cheek. "John? Can you hear us?"

"I feared he might be conscious after all," Sherlock mutters, and Molly looks up, and John doesn't like how she pulls away a bit, because she is a comfort, one he didn't realize he could have through all the numbness, and he wants her to stay, to reel him back in from the drifting sea.

(When he wakes up, he's going to go to the real Molly and tell her about this dream, and ask her if she would forgive him, because he didn't grasp the hand she's been reaching out with all this time Sherlock's been gone. He forgot what a friend he has in her, and he's ashamed of himself, suddenly, for being as careless as that. He hasn't even asked her about how she's been dealing with Sherlock's death all this time, and now John just feels _heartless_.)

"What do we do?" Molly whispers.

"Bring him home. Let him think this is a dream."

Sherlock sounds distinctly clearer, but only because his tone is unyielding and borderline vindictive. It makes John shudder, something curling up dead and dropping like a stone in his stomach. He pitches forward, and the extra warmth is back, aiding Molly in holding John upright. He shudders again, thinking, _Sherlock._

"That's horrible," Molly whispers, voice breaking, her tears renewed. "How can you keep doing this to him? God, you don't have a heart at all, do you?"

Sherlock doesn't answer. But the way Molly takes a sudden and rigid intake of breath, John wonders if Sherlock has a rather expressive look on his face that is speaking for him. John wishes he could see it, give a level to the look, if only to puzzle out the context of Molly's shocked little gasp.

"Fine, we'll bring him home," Molly says as last, and John is hauled to his feet, but he barely feels it. It's like walking through thigh-high slush or stepping on the moon or moving in honey. He's sluggish and sure that this is a dream, because it's too weird to be real, and yeah, okay, it's a little bizarre that Molly and Sherlock are saying it's a dream when it is one, but sometimes, you know, that happens. You know you're dreaming while it's happening.

What's that called, again? Lucid dreaming? Yeah, something like that. Maybe he can control it? Maybe he can lean over closer to the half of him being carried by Sherlock… ah, there, did it. Now, maybe, we can open his mouth and say something through the alcoholic haze?

"Sh'l'k," he tries to say, but it's horribly gargled and slurred, and wow, okay, normally John is pretty articulate in his dreams. He blames the beer. He clears his throat and tries again. He feels too warm, sweaty. "Sher'k." There, more recognizable. Again. "Sh'lock," he says louder, and that's close enough.

"Be quiet, John," comes the oddly tender reply, and John is somewhat aware of a rub or pat on his back, and a tug on his belt where someone – Sherlock? – adjusts their hold on him. "We're approaching stairs, now. Can you move your feet? Walk down them for us?"

John slumps his head, a meant-to-be-nod, and eases down step by step with Molly's and Sherlock's help. Something slips out here and there as he walks closer and closer to outside. They're little broken words from trains of thought John's having, ranging from, "Molls," to "Sh'r'ock," to "Luvoo," to "No." Some of them are moans and grunts, others actual words. The moans are too close to being sobs, but if either of John's figments of imagination notice, they don't comment on it.

"I'll hail a cab," Molly murmurs, trying to be helpful. She steps down from the sidewalk and raises her hand to one passing by on the street that looks empty.

John leans all his weight onto dream-Sherlock and inhales. He doesn't smell like Sherlock, doesn't smell like Baker street, doesn't smell remotely like he remembers; so it must be a dream, right? Because John knows how Sherlock is supposed to smell, and it isn't like this. Maybe part of it is – the backdrop of the scent is familiar – but the rest of it? Completely foreign.

John sighs sadly against dream-Sherlock's lapel and turns his nose into the warmth of Sherlock's chest. He can hear Sherlock's heart beating. _Thump-thumpthump-thumpthump-thumpthump-thump,_ in rapid succession, and it's soothing.

"John. Get into the cab, come on," Sherlock instructs. "It's almost time to wake up at home."

"C'm wif me, Sh'lock," John slurs, groaning sorrowfully. He holds on tightly to this dream, because he doesn't want to wake from it yet. He can't; Sherlock is in this dream, and he hasn't dreamt of Sherlock in months, and he doesn't know when he will again. It's all he has right now. " _Stay._ "

John thinks he hears Molly and Sherlock discuss something mutedly to one another over John's head after a pause when they hear that last word. He doesn't pay their private conversation any heed; he simply buries himself in Sherlock's clothing and feels all the warmth and firmness there, listening to that heart skip beats and force itself to calm down when the lungs around it take measured inflates and deflates. John loosens his grip on the jacket then, and simply places his hand sloppily over that heart, wanting to do more than simply listen to it.

The lungs inhale sharply, and soon a cool hand removes John's fingers from that heated, firm place and he can't feel the little thumps anymore, and it makes him feel increasingly depressed.

"In you go," chimes Molly's sweet voice. "Get him to bed, Sherlock, and see if there are any aspirin you can put with a glass of water on his bedside for when he wakes later."

"I know what to do, Molly," Sherlock mumbles. "Thank you. I'm sorry about this."

"I would say it's not your fault, but it kind of _is_ ," she says softly, and there is some humor in there, John thinks, so it's okay, he doesn't have to tell her that she's wrong. It's not Sherlock that handed John every beverage he drank tonight; that was his own doing. It's his fault for reacting this way and being unable to cope well; not Sherlock's, as much as John would like to blame the dead man for it.

And that's really the last thing John remembers about the dream before he slips into a grayish-black swirl for a while.

0o0o0

"How did it go? Is he alright now?" Molly. So concerned, so sweet. Brush it off with an 'of course' and walk past her. Need water. Hears her clear her throat while cool liquid runs relaxingly down his. "Right. Do you see, now, why you need to hurry up? I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I can't play the bystander anymore. I'm putting my foot down on this, and taking my side: and right now, I'm siding with John." Sounds frantic; can almost hear her heart fluttering with adrenaline and fear in her chest. She's never truly stood up to him before about anything. But John's behavior tonight was the final straw for her. She's breaking. She's crying. She wants it to end.

"Duly noted and well respected, Molly," answers evenly. Don't look up. Don't see the influx of emotion on her face at that. Turn away. "But I can't do what I know you're going to ask me to do."

"Why? You told me, you said you were done with the assassins. Those loose ends should be tired by now, shouldn't they? It's been weeks since you said that. You can go home, now, if you liked, couldn't you? So what's stopping you?" Molly is brighter than he gives her credit for. "Sherlock, what's _stopping_ you?" she repeats, crying it out desperately, and really, _really;_ _ **don't look at her, Sherlock.**_

Shaky inhale, too quick of an exhale. Busies self with getting more water to drink. "That's none of your concern."

Silence. Molly fiercely tries to rub her tears away, dry her eyes, keep them dry. Lowly, she utters, "Damn you, Sherlock. You always say horrible things, _always,_ but that… that was too far." Voice breaks. _Don't look at her._ "You're both my concern. When you two are apart like this, I'm apart, too. I'm not together when you two aren't together. You've become that important to me. God, can't you see that? Don't you care at all, Sherlock?"

Cares too much, in fact. Doesn't know why Moriarty didn't have a fourth assassin, one for Molly; glad he didn't, but wonders why he didn't, because Molly is also valuable. Molly is also important. _Molly does count._ She's worthy of a threat, because her life, too, matters over Sherlock's. Hers and Lestrade's and Mrs. Hudson's and _John's._ Especially's John's. But John is why he can't give up his cover yet. Can't return to the world of the living yet.

He fears it. What's stopping him is his own fear. Because fear is the mind-killer, and it is the most difficult thing to do, face your fears. Sherlock doesn't fear death, doesn't fear life, doesn't fear sex, doesn't fear crime, doesn't fear Moriarty, doesn't fear God.

Sherlock's only fear is John's reaction when he faces him again on sober terms. When he knows John has his defenses up, when John is levelheaded and clear-minded. When John is aware of precisely what it means, and isn't too fragile to grasp that it's real.

Because Sherlock doesn't want to see John be like this, like Molly: on edge and yelling and crying and wanting to punch him and on the brink of hating him. Sherlock fears John's hatred, his wrath. He fears John's coldness. Doesn't want John to hate him, to disregard him, to banish him from his life.

Molly finds the courage, it seems, and walks over to Sherlock. She is stiff and awkward and struggling to breathe properly, and her hands are miniature earthquakes, but she manages.

Slaps Sherlock, clammy hand like a whip, stinging and loud. Then pulls him down, slowly, by his reddened face, peering into his eyes with her watery ones. "I get it, now. I do. You don't want him to be as mad at you as I am."

(Molly is definitely brighter than she seems, more intuitive than he gives her credit. Womanly instinct; it must be.)

Goes on with more confidence, "But we're forgiving people, me and John. He's more stubborn, and much stronger than me, and he can take more without breaking, but only by so much, Sherlock. Only by so much." Fresh tears streak her face. She leans up a bit, second-guesses it, but hurriedly does it anyway: pecks Sherlock on the cheek, the same she scorned. "He won't hate you forever, if he hates you at first. But give him a chance; he might surprise you."

"…No one could just let me into their life again after what I've done, and especially not John," Sherlock remarks stoically, leaning away from her, just out of reach. She brings her hands together, fiddling with them in front of her shirt.

"No one could simply let you into their life _ever,_ but look, plenty of people have done that," reminds sternly. Sherlock tenses. She sighs, looks away. "Fine, then. Take your sweet time returning to him. But the longer you wait, the better chance there will be of him hating you." And she says this gently, not hurtfully at all, and her intentions for saying it are good. But that doesn't stop the pain from touching Sherlock's chest, tying it up in knots and making his lungs forget, temporarily, how to function.

"Duly noted," he repeats. He means it.

Turn. Set down glass of water. Open door. Leave Molly's flat. Return to hotel. Drop onto bed, door securely locked.

_Unconscious in minutes._


	5. Part V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John visits his sister, Harry, and gets a few answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like Harry Watson. Why? Because we basically have nothing to go on about her except when she is briefly mentioned on the show. And for this reason, I can make her essentially any way I wish, as long as it fits reasonably into the situation. And thus, in this chapter, we have plenty of John and Harry interaction and sibling comfort. Yay.

John tells his psychologist about the drinking, and the dream of Sherlock and Molly, and asks what it could mean.

She doesn't tell him what she thinks the meaning behind it could be; she insists instead that he take the time later to dissect it himself, because what he feels its purpose was could be far different than her idea of it, because it can hold a more unique meaning to him personally than she can begin to guess.

She also tells him this: "It would be a good idea to talk to or visit with his sister for a while, particularly about the drinking, since she struggles with it as well. I think it would make a good bonding experience for you two, since you've told me in the past how weak your relationship with her is. Now might be a good time to strengthen it, and help one another out of the proverbial hole."

John actually agrees that this could be a good idea. So the next chance he gets, he arranges a week convenient for Harry, and hops on a train and in a cab to go out and see her.

0o0o0

John passes by a few old houses on his way to see his sister. They all have cellar doors popped on the side of them, or in the back, when the house is facing the opposite of the road. John sees them and thinks how metaphorical cellars can be: they are part of the foundation of a house; they hold history, secrets; they're dark; they're usually cluttered or dirty; they are cool, sometimes damp; they can smell stale; but then, their doors lead out into the freshness of outside, the light of the sun, and suddenly what's being stored and hidden is revealed, and the cobwebs are swept away, and they can be a safe-ground for storms, or a last means of escape from a ruined home.

Sometimes people can be like cellar doors.

They can be beaten down, aged with moss and splits and nicks, they can get brittle, or termites can eat away at them, but in the end, they always let in the light to someone's cellar. People can be as trustworthy and solid as cellar doors; people can protect your secrets, the things you store and hide about yourself; people can be strong even after all the abuse of the elements around them.

Idly, John wonders if he's anyone's cellar door. If he guards anyone's inner workings, anyone's heart; he wonders if he could ever be part of someone's foundations, what helps make them who they are.

He wonders, too, if he can think of anyone who is his own cellar door. Lately, Molly has come close; because even on their best terms, Harry isn't as close as Molly in that department. But in the end, no one living comes to mind. No one _still alive_ who is important in John's life has managed to become that for John, to be his guardian and his escape and his safe place and his light.

(Sherlock once called John a Conductor of Light; it was after his apology to John about saying he didn't have any friends, right at the end of the Hound of Baskerville case. John wonders if, in his own way, Sherlock was telling John that John was his cellar door. The person who let light into him, the person who knew all his faults and inner workings and was stable and there for him anyway, despite certain things about Sherlock that would frighten most people away, or offend them to the point where they left him. But not John.)

John inhales slowly, mentally punctuating each sensation, mapping out where the air is sucked into his nose and filters down through his trachea and enters his lungs and inflates them like meaty balloons and then he recounts to himself, holding his breath, the exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide and where it enters the bloodstream and where it lingers and churns for a while, before he finally lets the breath go, also riding out the feeling of the exhale and mapping out how it leaves his lips.

When the ride is over, John stands in front of his sister's yard for a number of minutes. Finally, he treks up to the door and rings the bell. If Harry is buzzed or drunk, she'll hear the bell, since it is the loudest, and won't ignore him, were he to give a knock instead.

But when she answers, she is smiling bittersweetly and is most decidedly sober. She envelops him in a hug before he can protest or even get a word of unenthusiastic greeting in. "Come in, John, come in," she says, tugging him inside. "God, you look awful. I heard you started picking up my habits." And she isn't joking about it, isn't pleased in the least. She's worried.

"Not as often, but yes, I'll admit I've been picking up the bottle more than I used to," John admits. There's no sense in denying it. "I was just drunk last week, really out of it. I dreamt Sherlock and Molly were taking care of me, making sure I got home all right, putting out medicine and water for me to have in the morning. It was a weird dream, but at least I heard Sherlock's voice again."

"Oh, John," Harry murmurs woefully, and moves to give him another hug. "I hate him for doing this to you. I know it's wrong to hate a dead man, but I do. I hate him. He had no right leaving you like this. If I'd known it'd come to this…"

"It's alright, Harry," John tells her swiftly, moving out of her scrawny, toned arms and ruffling her boyishly short, pixie-cut hair. "Thank you for being protective of me, but I'm not a kid anymore. But at least we've fixed things between us because of all of this." He smiles at her. It doesn't reach his eyes. "My big sister," he murmurs wistfully.

Harry smiles sadly and gives him a peck on the cheek. "We've never really got on, but now I think we can. Do you know that I've been dry for the past month? Not a lick of alcohol. And knowing you're starting to turn to it has made me all the more determined to stay off of it. I can't have you following in my footsteps, John; I can't. You've always been the better of us both. The more moral one, the one with the best self-control. I've always admired that about you. Please, please don't make it become the other way around. I couldn't bear it."

John sighs and nods his head slowly. "I'll try to get back to that point, Harry, I really will. But I might never been myself again, never fully. I was nearly there, you know, after the army and Afghanistan; I almost perfectly back to myself, if not missing a little bit of innocence as far as killing others goes, and I was ready to move on from what I'd seen, what I'd done. But then he had to die, Harry, and now I'll never be the same. I can't can't two tragedies within two years of each other. I just can't. I don't know how to cope."

"But alcohol isn't the answer, and, _Jesus_ , that's coming from _me,_ " Harry replies in earnest, touching her brother's forearm. "And that's why you're here, right now, with me: we're going to keep an eye on each other this week during your visit, and we're going to keep our minds off of all the things we've loved and lost and been through."

And he knows she's thinking of Clara, and their divorce, still a fresh wound for her, considering it took quite a while to get finalized, because Harry didn't entirely want to let her go. In his pocket, the phone she gave him weighs heavier than it had a moment before (illogical and impossible, Sherlock would say, but John is, at least, more aware of its weight than he was a second ago).

John nods quietly, and then, after Harry makes tea and they both sit down to watch an old favorite of theirs from when they were vastly younger, John pipes up, "Harry, would you judge me terribly if I said part of me loved Sherlock?"

"No, not at all," Harry says immediately, turning her head and looking astounded. "I know I said I hate him, but it's only for this, now. At the time, he seemed good for you. Like organized chaos in human form: he kept your mind off of the bad things, like the war, but kept you busy with crime solving. It was weird and I'm not sure I liked him very much from what I heard and saw of him on your blog and the news, but you were his friend, and you've always been a good judge of character, so I didn't question it."

John sighs, relieved. "Thanks for that."

"But…" Harry murmurs, and John sends her an inquisitive look.

"What?"

"I did worry, John. About your relationship with him. If it was healthy, if he appreciated your friendship, if you – or even him, I don't know, because I wasn't there for it in person – wanted more out of it but didn't get it, or were afraid of it. Because, John, you know me: I'm a lesbian. I acknowledge that about myself. I don't feel ashamed or unsure about it. But you always seemed very purposely straight, like you didn't want to let our parents down by being just like me. So I have to ask: what sort of love was it, John? That you felt for Sherlock Holmes?"

And here John is rendered speechless and fumbling for any sort of response, even an emotional one, because as it stands, his face is blank and his eyes are wide and his brain is stalling like an old car on the highway. He blinks – forces himself to, as it were – and shakes his head painstakingly slow.

He licks his lips, preparing to speak at last, and looks her in the eye. "I-I'm not sure, Harry. All sorts of people insinuated that he and I were a couple, that we were shagging behind closed doors, or locked in some sort of sexual tension, or we were secretly besotted with the other and never had the guts to say so. But that wasn't it, I don't think. I didn't –" He stops short.

"John?" his sister asks, a twinge of concern evident in her tone.

With a heavy breath, his heart hammering, he tries again; and this time, he doesn't look Harry in the eyes. Instead, he opts to stare at his own laces fingers in his lap, pretending to study and trace his own cuticles and veins and fingernails. "I didn't lust after him or anything like that. I'm really _not_ gay, Harry. I told everyone else, but they just brushed it off; one even liked Sherlock, and she pointed out that she _did_ see herself as gay, and yet there she was, half in love with him. But I'm not like that. I just…"

He sighs again, and his eyes slowly pan up to meet Harry's. To her credit, she looks perfectly indifferent, waiting for him to finish before she utters a word or thinks more than the start of a thought on the matter.

He gives up. "I just loved him, that's all. I wouldn't have minded if he wanted to further our relationship at all, but I didn't seek it out, nor did I try to make it progress in that direction, either. He was just… _special._ I dunno."

There's a pause. Then, "Pansexuals are people who fall in love regardless of gender and sexuality; they just love who they love, and sex comes later, only because they love that person," Harry whispers. She shakes her head and adjusts her position to trap one foot under her opposite knee. "I'm not saying that's you, but it's something to consider if you don't like being labeled 'gay' or 'bisexual' just because you love one man, and might only ever love one man. You can still be straight, just… had interest in Sherlock because he was _Sherlock_ and not anyone else."

"…Do you think he was a fake, in the end?" John needs to know. He accepts her thoughts and is processing them slowly, so in the meantime, he would like to know this much.

She makes a noncommittal motion of her shoulders and hands. "I bet everyone thinks your opinion is biased, but I think yours is the truth. You lived with him; you witnessed every side of him, every mood, every habit. You'd be able to tell if he was ever pretending to be what he said he was. So I'll ask you: do you think he was a fraud?"

"I know he wasn't," John replies firmly. "He was exactly the same all the time: an annoying dick. I even told him so, before… before he died," he informs her. "He thought I was afraid that they were right. But I never doubted him for a second. I knew it was all lies, what the media was saying. Because I knew who made up those lies."

"Moriarty," Harry nods. "Yeah, I remember the trail from the papers, and then him being dismissed as an actor."

"Oh, he _was_ an actor," John says with venom in his voice Harry's never heard in the past, and to be honest, it's sending icy chills down her spine. "And a bloody good one, too, to come up with an entire other personality and name and occupation. But I know the _real_ Moriarty. He and his men pinned me down and attached bombs to me and told me to play along and wait for Sherlock and say what I was told to say, exactly as it was said, or I would die, and Sherlock would die, and so would everyone within a block radius of me." He's seething, fists clenched. He grinds out, " _That_ wasn't an act, no matter how much someone could have paid them all off; it _couldn't_ have been, not with his level of insanity, because he would have died, too."

Harry nods shakily. "I'll take your word for it," she whispers, and she finds herself backing up on the couch, trying to be casual about it, but genuinely, she's terrified. She's never seen this side of John, and frankly, she never wants to see it again. It's… it's downright _ruthless,_ the soldier behind the doctor, the killer behind the medic, and she can _feel_ the hatred and desire for revenge and fire radiating off of him. This isn't her brother; this is someone else, a darker side, one she prays is fleeting and only able to rise when James Moriarty is involved, because she would hate to see John like this toward anybody else, anyone who didn't quite deserve it.

They change topics again, get fresh beverages, and restart the movie, paying more attention to it this time around instead of talking over it and ignoring it completely, as they had been for the past half hour.

Harry, halfway through the film, begins to relax again, forgetting all about John's flash of unadulterated fury. And near the end of the film, she decides it would be best to help John forget, too, since he seems so somber. So she scoots closer again, timidly reaches her arm around the back of the couch, touches the side of his head, and guides him to rest against her shoulder.

John stiffens at first, but after a few seconds, he sags against her and places his arm around her waist. They sit like this for a long, long while, finishing the movie, and then switching to cable to watch someone mindless on there, too.

And when John's dam breaks and he finally starts to cry, his sister holds him like their mother used to, and rocks him back and forth, cradling his head to her flat chest, feeling his hands clench into her shirt, feeling his tears hot and wet on her shoulder. She comforts him over and over, a mantra of, "Shh, John, shhh, it's okay, it's okay," into his shirt collar, and he is mostly quiet, his sobs breathy and choppy and full of snuffles as he tries to keep everything in, even as he lets it out, and Harry carries on being the good older sister and anchors him through it all.

When they part, Harry makes dinner, John recomposes himself, and halfway through their meal, he requests softly, "Don't tell anyone I did that."

And Harry simply smiles an understanding, careful smile, and replies, "Of course not." And without missing a beat, she asks, "How do you like your pork chop? Not too tough? I tried to marinate it for a while."

"It's delicious, Harry, thank you," John replies, and they both know that he isn't only thanking her for the food, but for everything she's done and said today. This truly has been the best they've behaved together as siblings, and it's not something John is going to forget any time soon.


	6. Part VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John is not stupid, I know," he relays fiercely.

" _John's not stupid, you know. He might question it soon, now that he's coming back from his sister's and has had time to think about that night. He could realize that he never set out those things for himself, never called a cab for himself, never had anyone help him since he didn't go out drinking with any of his friends,"_ Molly rambles.

Molly is afraid. John returns home today from Harry Watson's. Molly has been dreading this all along. Molly wants out. Molly is tired. Molly is a good person with a generous conscience and panicky logic.

Molly is _right._

" _I know he's not stupid. I know he might be yet to figure it out, has the potential to. He's been denying it, but he might still come 'round and realize. I know that, Molly; I know because I stopped thinking John a moron the night he shot a man for my sake. The night of our first case together; you remember. He blogged about it. He saved me life, knew how to find me. John is_ _ **not**_ _stupid, I_ know, _"_ he relays fiercely.

Because John _isn't_ an idiot. If any normal human ever was above average intelligence, it's John Hamish Watson. Sherlock knows this because, sometimes, he doesn't have to explain himself. Sometimes he gets _that look_ on his face, 'the one where we both know what's going on here,' as John had put it once, and on those times, it's justified. Both of them _do_ know, _are_ up to speed with the other. They are _equals._

And the times when The Face annoys John because they are _not_ on the same level, thinking on the same page, Sherlock makes The Face regardless _because_ the feeling remains that they are equals in Sherlock's eyes. He has never put John down a peg below himself since that first night. He's had no reason to, even if he's said otherwise, even if he's acted like it.

Because, to Sherlock, John is the only person who has been able to follow Sherlock's pace. Lestrade takes the end results of the process and trusts that it's correct, because more often than not, Sherlock is proved correct in the end. But _John._ John wants to understand it, wants to learn all he can about how Sherlock got to the end result, and wants to better himself for next time, to see if he can't come to the same conclusion or along the path toward the same conclusion without the guidance of Sherlock's explanations.

And that's what makes John different from everyone else Sherlock has met. That's what makes John special, makes him up to par with Sherlock in his own way, as opposed to being just another worthless human. And John is even _helpful_ at times, for an experiment or as protection or a medical examiner or a friend. He's assuring and accepting, and those are things Sherlock never knew he needed until he received them.

In the expanse of time it has taken Sherlock to recap this, Molly has sighed, relented, apologized, called Sherlock's name twice, and sighed again.

So Sherlock comes back to himself from his thoughts, remembers to be polite enough to murmur, "Sorry, Molly; I was thinking," and hear her tell him that's it's okay, it's nothing.

And they carry on.

" _John should be coming in to work tomorrow. I'll see him soon."_

" _You sound like you've decided something,"_ venturing cautiously.

Molly sounds beyond tired. _"I have. I'm not going to say anything to him. He might mention that night since I was there, and I'm not going to acknowledge it. I might be on John's side, but I can't betray you, either, as much as I want to explode and tell him that it was real, that you're alive."_ Sighs again. Poor Molly. Sherlock actually feels the sour note in his chest, that pang of guilt he is unaccustomed to feeling. He wishes he could help, but he can't; not yet, not like this. It's not right. It – _"Um!"_

" _Yes? You sound startled. Molly, what is it? Is someone there?"_

" _I have to go! J-John's here; Hi, John! –He came to say 'hello.' I, um. I'll call you back later, okay?"_

Dead line. Ugly dial tone.

Hangs up reluctantly.

0o0o0

"I have to go! J-John's here; Hi, John! –He came to say 'hello.' I, um. I'll call you back later, okay?" Molly sputters as she snaps her old flip-phone shut. She laughs nervously and turns to the other doctor. "John! I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow. Have a nice visit with your sister?"

"Yeah," John replies softly, moving slowly into the morgue. There is an elderly gentleman on the slab in front of Molly, sheet over his lower body. She has the first incisions of the autopsy done, the skin ready to be peeled back to reveal flesh and bone and organ. John adverts his gaze. "I sorted out a lot while I was there. Harry was oddly supportive, and it was nice."

"Good. Good, I'm glad. That's – that's good, John. Really great; it's always… _good_ … to get things sorted," Molly replies hurriedly and mutedly, and she looks like she is on the brink of tears or laughing again.

John takes a few steps closer, around the autopsy table. Molly has her gloves on, her hair up, her scrubs in place, a barrette in her hair with Hello Kitty's little head on it. Her necklace bears cherries to match the red of Kitty's bow. Her face is white, but then again, the lighting is crap and London isn't known for seeing a lot of sun to begin with.

"Molly," John says gently, "You know, I think a lot of people don't appreciate you."

"Huh?" Molly mumbles, and the bewilderment and jumpy trepidation on her face mingle in an almost unattractive way. "J-John, I don't –"

"You're a cellar door, Molly," John murmurs, and she hasn't the faintest clue what he's going on about. But he prattles on, stepping into her personal space, and he carefully slides the scalpel from her iron grip and sets it aside with the other tools. It will have to be re-sterilized from touching his bare fingers. John continues, "Cellar doors aren't very common anymore, are they? But they're sturdy, meaningful things. They keep out the weather, they let in the light; depending on if they're open or closed."

"John, I'm not following," Molly whispers. She isn't afraid of John; there is nothing to be afraid of, even if he is being cryptic and too quiet, as if he is keeping himself from yelling. Even then, even with the entire amount of wrath he has the potential to possess, she isn't scared of him. Her fear lies elsewhere, in the truth, in betrayal, in letting both John and Sherlock down, in everything that isn't what John is actually talking about.

"But you're a broken cellar door, Molly. The elements have gotten to you. You're blocking the light, and ruining the inside of the cellar. Something broke you," John replies. "Just like how I was broken."

"John… you're not acting like yourself," says Molly, but she can tell he already knows this little fact.

He nods. "I know. And I'm sorry about that. But grief can bend people out of shape," he says. "My therapist told me that."

"You never told me you've been seeing her again," Molly blinks.

"Only Harry knows. I've been seeing her for the past few years, Molls. Since he died. I needed some outside support."

"I could have supported you," Molly chokes, and yes, there: the tears are dripping, having been forming just under her lids this entire time, and now they are falling like rain, softly and with hardly a sound; drizzling tears. "I would have, if you would have let me."

John touches the flesh of her cheek to brush away a tear. "It's okay, Molly. It's not your fault. I pushed everyone away." He sighs and drops his gaze. "But I came here today, Molly, because Harry and I talked about this dream I had the other week. It really threw me, because Sherlock was in it, and I haven't dreamt of him in ages, not since the nightmares of his death on repeat the first couple of months. But after that, nothing. Until recently. And… you were in it, too, which was weird, because I hardly dream of you, even though we're friends."

Molly's tears don't slow; quite the opposite: they become numerous and steady, and little whimpers and sobs start to leak form her mouth, and John pities her a bit, and brings her into his arms. She doesn't hold him back.

"No, it's okay. I know, Molly. I know it wasn't a dream. It did feel too real, when I think about it. And there are too many coincidences; like, you know how, in some dreams, it feels so real that, for a few minutes when you wake up, you think it was real? But then you see something and know it was different in the dream, so you go, 'Oh, so it was just a dream after all' and forget about it. But when I woke up… there was proof everywhere, especially in the gaps of my memory, that just seemed to prove its realness."

Molly blubbers something into John's jumper and her gloves hands come up, clinging, and wind up smearing the tiniest traces of blood from her work onto the wooly fabric, but John doesn't care; he can wash it later. Or throw it out; it isn't one of his favorites, anyway.

He keeps right on talking. "So that was him on the phone, wasn't it? You wouldn't have jumped off as soon as I came in if it was anyone else who rang you."

She nods pathetically and hiccups.

John accepts this by degrees, muscles tensing, heartbeat skipping and slowing down to a painful rate as he swallows dryly and nods once or twice. He almost wants to shout at the sky, 'See? I can make good deductions, too, Sherlock!' and he wants to be angry, so incredibly furious with Molly, but in the end, he isn't. He doesn't feel it at all; not geared toward her, anyway. She didn't do this. She was talked into it, he bets, because she's loyal to Sherlock, to them both, and it's clearly hurting her, if her weeping into his chest is any indication.

"I thought so," John utters under his breath. "So he is alive after all. All this time."

"G-God, John, I'm so sorry, s-so sorry, so s-s–" Molly wails, and John relaxes again, softening his arms around her and shushing her kindly.

"No, it's okay, Molls, really. It's alright," he reassures her, but it does nothing to cease her loud cries, the sort that echo around the morgue hollowly, and John swears that even the deceased body on the slab beside them can feel the pain in those cries. "When you calm down, can you give me his number? I… I want to talk to him."

"J-John," she hiccups, "H-he isn't ready. H-he was going to c-come to you, b-but…"

"Shh, no, I know. But he owes me. And he can start paying me back by letting me contact him first, the bastard," John says, but he has a slight smile on his face, and it's enough to persuade her.

Molly nods dumbly and pushes away enough to move freely. She fishes a notepad from one of the pockets of her scrubs. She jots down the number messily, tears off the sheet, crumples it, sets the pad and pen aside, breathing, breathing, _breathing._ John pats her back, rubbing in soothing circles, until she stops choking on her own sobs and can see clearly. Her hand is shaking less. She resumes jotting down the number, this time in a much more legible hand.

"Here," she says quietly. "This is his new mobile number. And that," she adds, pointing at the address and room number below it, "Is the hotel he's staying at. He's had me visit him there a few times."

John presses a kiss to her forehead, which is fever-hot from her crying. "Thank you, Molly."

"I should have done it the second I knew," she whispers. "And before I had that information, in fact. Because –" and she has to clamp a hand over her mouth to keep from letting out another sob.

John goes out on a limb and finishes the thought. "Because you helped him fake his death to begin with. You see to a lot of the bodies; you were perfect for that job, and he knew it, and you knew it, and you knew that if it was that he needed you to do, you would do it because you love him."

She shakes her head, bowing it with both hands to her mouth, now. After a while, she looks up, sniffles, and dabs at her eyes. "Yes," is all she can manage, but it is confirmation enough. "But it's been too much, John, how it's hurt you. I've been torn between you two for so long, I'm almost forgetting what it was like when I was whole, when you two were inseparable."

"Me too, Molly," John whispers. "Me too."

She sees something in his eyes, then, that makes her face fall completely, devoid of anything but empathy, and soon she's placing a warm kiss on his lips, chaste and platonic, and John lets her do it, lets her kiss him again, afterward, on his chin, and lets her bring her arms up around his neck to hold him. He allows himself, too, to slide a hand around her ribs, touching her back, feeling a knob in her spine beneath her layers of clothes.

It's makeshift – just another band-aid until Sherlock is back in the picture with them – but at least one end is slowly mending again. _Hooper,_ John's half, is slowly re-aligning to _Molly,_ Sherlock's half, and the fracture is being guided toward merging once more.

And it's enough, for now.


	7. Part VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can't play dumb now. Drops façade. Swallows.

Mobile rings. Familiar number, like déjà vu; can't quite place where he's seen it before. Most numbers he dials he only dials once, or adds immediately to his contacts to save the brain space of memorizing them. So this number… yes, he must have dialed it once before, in the past. This is alarming; who knows he is alive? Who, aside from Molly, and, reluctantly, his brother? _Who_?

Answers it on fourth ring. Disguises voice to a higher pitch. "Ah, yes, hullo?" said purposely shyly. Will pretend it's the wrong number if anyone asks for Sherlock. Will play dumb. Will –

"Sherlock," replies the other voice. Direct, to the point, callous. Straining to keep voice leveled and strong.

" _John._ " Can't play dumb now. Drops façade. Swallows. "Molly gave you my number, didn't she?"

"Naturally," John retorts. "But don't you dare go blaming her for a thing, you hear me? I figured it out. I told her to give it to me. She's done nothing wrong."

"No," Sherlock agrees quietly. "She hasn't done anything wrong at all."

John clears his throat. "…So?"

"'So' what?" Remain collected, remain neutral, remain distant. Swallow again; mouth too dry, throat tight, ears ringing, heart drumming noticeably.

"When do I get to _knock_ your teeth _in_?" John utters, voice trembling on the stressed words, rage and hurt bleeding through them.

And there it is, what Sherlock has been dreading for so long, trying to avoid in his arguably cowardly way: the spite, the malice, the grudge that cannot be undone. "I except you'll visit me soon and do just that. Molly wouldn't withhold information after the cat's been let out of the bag; I'm nearly positive she gave you my hotel and room as well. I won't change them. I'll wait for you."

A roar: "Goddammit, Sherlock!" Heavy breathing. Then, brokenly, "God _damn_ you."

The question nags at him. The question begs to be spoken. The question, the ultimate fear, the source of hesitation, is asking to be said right here, right now. Sherlock pulls the phone away from his ear. Brings it back. Licks lips anxiously. Closes his eyes. "Do you hate me, John?"

A long silence. A dreadfully, agonizingly lengthy silence. Sherlock nearly ends the call. His thumb hovers over the 'end' option. Holds his breath. Counts. Waits, albeit impatiently, but also not eager to know the answer. Breathes shallowly.

Then, like the purest graces from God, John gives his answer to end the silent suffering.

"No," John huffs, as if beaten. "No, Sherlock. _Jesus._ I might be daft, or mad for saying so, because I _am_ incredibly hurt and angry with you, but I don't hate you. _Fuck,_ Sherlock, you should know that no matter what you do, I can't _hate_ you. I don't have it in me to hate you, even if you _are_ a sodding asshole."

"You… don't?" Sherlock murmurs, pleasantly taken aback. Once again, John is the better man. Once again, John proves to be as Molly said, as Sherlock had secretly hoped: merciful and compassionate and sincere. "Why not? By all means, you should. You have every right."

"I might have reason to, but I _don't_ ," and there is the faintest smile in his voice, like part of John wants to laugh at Sherlock for being so uncharacteristically slow on the intake. "I love you, you brilliant idiot. That's why I don't have it in me to hate you." And he sighs raggedly, like it took all his mustered strength to say this. "There, now. I've said it. Take it however you want, I don't care. I need to stop talking to you for now. Goodbye, Sherlock."

The phone is quiet before the detective has a chance to say more than a puff of air.

Sets down mobile phone. He blinks. Stares at it. Replays John's words in his head. Rethinks the situation.

Texts Molly.

_'Come to the hotel at once. –S'_

0o0o0

When he answers the knock on his hotel door, Molly bursts in straight away with apologies. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I tried, but he worked it out, he guessed everything, he realized that night we helped him wasn't a dream, he –"

"I know, Molly," Sherlock tells her with a very calculated tone. He ushers her inside and shuts the door behind her, locking it. He takes her gently by the wrist, and she grows still. He leads her to the bed, sits her down on the edge of it. She is rigid and frail. She is a porcelain doll with glassy eyes, hair limper than usual. "Tell me what happened."

And she does. She rambles and repeats herself here and there, and starts over a few times, and puts things out of order and into order again, and once she's finished recounting every main point, she adds in the details with Sherlock's gentle prods, and in the end, he can imagine the entire scene exactly as it happened in the morgue.

"Seems there is more than one thing that needs mending," Sherlock remarks, and he knows what he must do, but he falters for a moment before doing it. He smiles, subsequently threading a hand into Molly's low, side-ponytail and curling his violinist's fingers around the base of her neck. Yet again she calms instantly under his hand, and her face relaxes. He brings her close, other hand touching her knee, and presses her face into his collarbone. "You've done well, Molly Hooper."

And that is it. That steadies his half of her, the _Molly/_ Sherlock piece, and the fracture is set and ready to begin healing, her cellar door, as John has put it, repaired, and on its way to becoming strong again. She releases a breath that takes ages to leave her lungs, and she rests her tired eyelids, and she feels like a soldier who has come home, weary from battle, but at ease. (She wonders if John felt like this, perhaps feeling like this again.)

"I've made a mistake. I've made a mess of the three of us. Highly problematic," Sherlock adds lowly, stating a fact like one might state a mathematic equation and its solution. "And for that… I am genuinely sorry." And the remorse is not an act; Molly feels it in her bones, and she buries herself deeper into his lean build, her hands pressing tightly against his chest, fingers together, bundled to her palm, and wrists pressing against his ribs. It's nothing but warmth. "John doesn't hate me."

"No," Molly says into his shoulder, muffled but comprehendible. "I knew he wouldn't. He loves you."

"He said he did, but I don't think I believed it until you confirmed it just now," Sherlock breathes, and yes, the tug in his heart isn't imagined, as irrational as it feels. "I don't know how to take that."

"Just accept it," Molly mumbles, squeezing her eyes impossibly tighter together. "Like you would anything else. It's unchangeable."

"Like the way you feel about me," Sherlock remarks incongruously, and Molly takes a moment before she nods against him.

"Yes," she admits. "You and John both. I don't know what I would do without either of you."

"Dangerously co-dependent," Sherlock says with a hint of a sardonic tone, "the three of us are."

"How did it get that way?" she poses, but it's a rhetorical question. She shakes her head, rubbing her forehead on his shoulder, and breathes in too-hot hair, smelling of fabric starch and Sherlock: musty like books and somehow forensic, like gunpowder or laboratory chemicals, despite him having hardly touched either in a long while. "We didn't start out very close. Just you and John."

He turns his lips into her hair, and she resists shivering at the buzz of his lips and breath trickling through the locks to her scalp. "No, I agree. But you are important to us, Molly, and please keep this experience as proof that you are. Without you, I doubt I would have returned to John as soon, if at all. And I doubt John would have coped as well without either of us, because I know I have become the crutch he abandoned since he returned to England from foreign land, and without me, all that was left to pick up the pieces was you. Even now, his sister isn't entirely reliable or convenient, and no man could understand his emotions as well as a woman could. And so, there is you, Molly. Only _you_."

She has never felt to vitally essential to someone before, let alone two persons. The tears swell in her eyes, and her throat becomes sore and difficult for swallowing. She somehow manages not to let herself cry. Instead, she wraps her arms around Sherlock fully and angles her face to kiss his cheek, and he looks down at her.

It nearly steals her breath away, seeing the raw emotion in his normally cold glasz eyes. They look almost perfectly mint green at the moment, and brows are strung up in revelation she didn't think he possessed, because it is of the emotional, personal sort, something she didn't think he could ever really touch on, let alone express openly to someone.

She feels privileged, and wishes that John can see this expression on Sherlock's face, can know how deeply he truly can – and does – care.


	8. Part VIII - Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mended.

He squeezes her hand, presses her knuckles to his lips, and lets her go.

Molly walks down the street, turns a corner; vanishes.

And then he waits.

0o0o0

"Did you talk to Sherlock?" John wants to know. Two days since he called him; he isn't sure if he can go through with seeing the man now, after all this. It would feel… anticlimactic. Perhaps the phone call ruined that. Perhaps it's just John being paranoid again.

"I went to see him," Molly answers. The hospital is too chilly; she wishes the heat were turned up to more regular levels for living human beings. "He was very kind about it, different than I thought he would be."

"Sherlock is full of never-ending surprises," John comments, and there is some humor there, but also some resentment, and Molly isn't sure which is more prominent, and which is in fact the safer tone for those words. She chooses to ignore it completely.

"Why haven't you see him yet?"

"I'm letting him come to me, like he wanted," John mutters. He ducks his head and pretends to busy himself with some unorganized papers on his desk. "I'm waiting for him to come back to the flat."

"What if he's waiting on you as well? Then it's sort of ridiculous, isn't it? Like a staring contest," Molly answers with a laugh she doesn't quite feel. But there is something distinctly lighter about the mood; the boys are back to their old games, still flatmates despite the years that have separated them. It nearly solidifies her to full restoration, more than the separate meetings have repaired her. All she needs is to see them in the same room, touching casually, speaking effortlessly to one another again, and she will be back to normal, and even content.

John sighs. "Maybe. But I just can't bring myself to go to him, to see him in a setting as temporary as a hotel room, to see how lonely he's been, like me, how stressed he's become because of what he must have been doing all this time he's away. I still don't get what it is yet, but I bet it has something to do with Moriarty, and I know that I probably owe him my life for it, but that doesn't mean I'm about to fall to his feet and take him back easily. There had to have been other ways of going about it. So he needs to come to me and explain things to me on my own terms in a place comfortable for me, not him."

"Fair enough," Molly nods mutedly. She Touches his hand, stilling his useless movements. "What he was doing… you're right: it was to protect you. He might never tell you out loud, but he loves you, too. I don't think he's ever loved anyone, but he loves you."

"Not true," John says flatly, but his face says something else entirely. "He loves Mrs. Hudson. He loves you."

"I-I don't know about that," Molly says quickly, self-conscious. "But I do know that he cares you differently than he cares about her or me. We're like family to him, or good friends; but you… John, you're on a whole other level. He _trusts_ you like he doesn't trust me or her or Greg, and he worries about you, and doesn't it tell you something that he avoided seeing you because he didn't want you to hate him?"

John's breath catches in his throat. "I… guess I didn't think about it like that."

She nods. "Exactly!" and she offers a small smile. "See? He… Sherlock really care about you, John. You mean the world to him; besides his work, I mean. He'll never give that up, not for anyone. But you're right there, equal to it. An equal to _him_." John is speechless, so she adds one thing more for his mind to digest, her voice growing impossibly softer: "I saw it with my own eyes when I met up with him and apologized. He… he looked so sorry, John, and so exposed. He let me see that. And if he let _me_ know that he has a heart, I can't imagine what he'll do when you see him again after all this time."

She pecks his temple and pats his hand, walking away. John is left in the silence of his office at the hospital, and it's disturbing.

He grabs his jacket, shrugs it over his jumper, and makes his way to the roof. His shift has been over for thirty minutes anyhow.

0o0o0

Here is where it began, essentially.

Sherlock's suicide, John's formulation of deductive reasoning, the sunsets, the scuff mark on the stairs, the leak in Molly's behavior, the drinking, the night he went too far; it all started here, with this rooftop in London, atop St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

John gazes out at the cityscape before him, the sun slowly sinking into the cloudy, dismal sky. There are sprinkles of rain touching down, lightly dotting John's skin and clothing. The scent of wet cement like stony earth, cold and faint, wafts up to meet his nose. He wrinkles it and sniffs, hand brushing his face, and he squints up at the sky, the drizzle, in an attempt to drown out the sound of his thoughts.

(Below, he hears the sounds of life: car tires, footsteps of people running to catch a bus or cab, idly chatter in the form of echoing voices and honking vehicles.)

John closes his eyes, takes in the feel of the breeze and the light rain.

A door closes with an audible squeak. John's eyes fly open. He doesn't turn around. "Molly?"

"No, it's me," answers a manly rumble, and John's stomach does a backflip.

"Sherlock," John addresses formally, habitually and subconsciously doing a military about-face as he turns his attention toward the taller man.

He is perfectly composed, hands clasped behind his back, spine erect, face nonchalant. "It's nice to see you again, John."

Sherlock is as John remembers, not a fraction different in the least. But the details are too perfect, as if Sherlock thought it would be easier on John's psyche for him to appear to John in the exact same coat, scarf, haircut, freshly shaven, recently eaten appearance.

John didn't know what he expected instead. More gaunt features than usual? Stubble, a beard? Dyed hair, or perhaps a wig? Colored contacts? Unfitting clothing for Sherlock's style? _Anything other than Sherlock himself to mark the passage of time and duty of mission?_

The doctor swallows multiple replies before coming up with the one he deems the most important. "I expected you to be waiting for me at Baker street."

"I was waiting there," Sherlock admits as he warily approaches John, step by deliberate step. "In my chair. You kept my chair."

"I couldn't part with it," John confesses, but his tone is matter-of-fact.

"Sentiment," Sherlock murmurs, and he looks away, halting a meter or so from John, hands still locked behind him. He presses on, "But I decided it would be best if I joined you here. I knew I would find you here."

"Probably read it on Molly's face or from the state of my office or some nonsense, am I right?" John scoffs.

Sherlock shakes his head. "No… this time it was a hunch."

"A hunch? You never work on hunches," John frowns.

"This time I did," Sherlock answers smoothly, and John feels something twist inside him, something like infuriation, and he bites his cheek to stuff it back down. He refuses to blow up again, to be angry, because they are on the rooftop for Christ's sake.

But he can't keep all of it bottled up. His therapist said that it wasn't healthy; well, how is what he's blurting out tensely any healthier?

"Tell me, Sherlock, just so I know: when did you decide to do this?" And he doesn't want to say it, he's tired of saying it, so he simply gestures to the ledge of the roof behind him.

"When we left the flat of that starving reporter who was housing Moriarty," Sherlock answers without hesitation. He has no reason to lie now. "I thought of it when I was pacing. I realized what I had to do. And that's when I left."

"I remember," John whispers. He brings his hands up and hangs his head into them, face covered from the drizzle and the sight of Sherlock looking so passive, despite what Molly said she saw on his face the other day. "God, you worked it all out right then and there?" he groans, tearing his face from his hands and staring wildly at Sherlock. "Right when I was beside you, trying to help you with our next move? You went and decided that all without me, even spewing that nonsense in the lab later, and –" he shakes his head, ripping his gaze from Sherlock's and turning around, pacing a moment before coming back, closer to Sherlock than they had been, his finger pointing up at Sherlock's face. "I have half a mind to sock you in the jaw this very second."

"Then do it, John, because I know I deserve it," Sherlock replies, passive as ever, if not more distant than a second ago.

"No," John returns firmly. "No, I won't give you the satisfaction of the punishment you think you deserve. _No_." And he presses his lips together into a thin line, eyes hard, for a lasting moment. Then, abruptly, John cuts into Sherlock's personal space and grabs his roughly by the coat collar, yanking him down until their noses bump, and Sherlock's mask is shattered, shock written on his face. "Listen very carefully to me, Sherlock Holmes."

"I am," Sherlock breathes, and his eyes can hardly focus, even as John gives their faces slightly more space to communicate by.

John's eyes are on fire with mixed emotions too numerous to count individually, all blending in with his irises. He relays with the sheer intensity of a drill instructor, "You're going to go with me to see Molly, and we're going to show her that we're back on friendly terms. Next, you're going to go to that hotel, check out, gather up what little stuff you probably have, and take a taxi to Baker street. And then you are I are going to make ourselves comfortable, because we're going to have a nice, long chat."

"As you wish, John," Sherlock whispers. His heart is a stampede of gazelle in his chest, and John is a lion.

"I'm not finished." John is very determined to keep himself together. But there are tears brimming his eyes, now. "You're _staying_ , you hear me? We're flatmates again. We're going to have show and tell with Mrs. Hudson tomorrow over afternoon tea so that she knows what's going on, just enough for it to make sense to her why you're back from the dead. And _then,_ Sherlock, and _only_ then, will I punch you in the face and forgive you for this disaster."

"Understood," the consulting detective utters clearly. His eyes are just as clear, and that's how John knows he can trust that Sherlock truly understands, and he releases him.

"And don't you ever go off again and do anything I can't bloody do with you," John adds heatedly.

Sherlock smirks, half of his mouth twitching upward. "Don't push your luck, John. I can't make those sorts of promises."

"Conniving bastard," John insults, but there is a twitch of a smile in his lips as well, and it does the trick. They are now balanced out.

John moves to return to the door leading to the stairs, but Sherlock catches his hand and holds it for a moment, John staring back at him. Sherlock says nothing, merely tightens his grip and begins walking. John follows, not quite catching on, but liking the very real feeling of Sherlock's hand in his, reminiscent of the single time they've done it before, because it is something like verification and resignation.

They wind through the hospital, ignoring certain double-takes and glances, and reach Molly. She is slipping out of her scrubs and into her coat when they enter. She looks up at their faces; first John's, then Sherlock's. Her eyes fall between them, then, after following down their arms. She sees their linked hands, Sherlock's black gloves encasing John's faintly tanned digits, stark in contrast. And she smiles. Broad and genuine and blissful.

She can't control the cry of joy that streams from her throat as a high-pitches gasp, nor does she bother to reign in the urge to embrace them both. She wraps one arm around Sherlock's outside shoulder, the other around John's, and the height difference makes it awkward and a bit of a strain for the two men, but Molly buries his face between their inside shoulders and pulls them close.

"I knew it would end well!" she says breathlessly. "I just had to have faith and give it time. But it was worth it, the pain, if this becomes of it."

"That's right, Molly," John softens, and uses his free hand to pat her back between her shoulder blades. His other hands gives Sherlock's hand an affectionate squeeze.

When she pulls away, there are tears on her face, but also a smile, and it's enough to reveal that softness in Sherlock's eyes as well. Sherlock directs that fond gaze toward John within seconds, and when John catches sight of it, he nearly can't believe it. But… but it's there, and it's like Molly said it would be, and it feels a lot like love and a bit like hope and vaguely like restitution.

xxx


End file.
